A lone corvid picks perch on a branch of steel.
His feathers a canvas for the rainbow,
Blackened by ash.
To his left, the shell of a mall echoes absolute silence.
To his right, the undisturbed corpse of a parking lot.
The bird sits, silhouetted by the sun,
And casts shadow to the stone desert below.
It stretches for miles, as vast as the sky itself,
Spreading thin the gaze of its onlooker
Still studying from his perch.
With beady eyes and coal-smeared beak, he stares
At the pronged light posts clawing at the sky,
The fingers of grass that web across the lot,
The empty spaces between white lines, and coughs.
The crow’s voice, the dropping of a pin.
The crow will sit until the sun is spent, its rays
Ever dimming in the evening shadow.
Beneath his claws, a spark ignites.
The light hanging from his perch sputters,
Fades into a subtle glow,
Shards of glass burst forth from their confines,
Reflecting briefly the scene they observe;
The dead mall looming in the dark,
The fields of cold, callus stone below
And the lone corvid’s ashen feathers
Vanishing into the night.